The Flightless Glitch
by lazy bread
Summary: Out of a one in a million chance, a glitch would happen in the game of life and death. [OC-centric, reincarnation, gender bender, OC has no prior knowledge of the KHR world.]
1. The end is the beginning

**Summary**: Out of a one in a million chance, a glitch would happen in the game of life and death.

**Warning(s)**: OC, reincarnation, gender bender, OC has no prior knowledge of the KHR world.

**Other Note(s)**: This **it **refers to the persona.

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><p><strong>1. The end is the beginning<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Tick tock.<em>

There is no telling when morning or night comes. The sun rising and sinking, as well as a full moon and a sky of twinkling stars are nothing but a foreign phenomenon. This is because simple wonders and the flow of time does not exist in an empty place such as this.

The dead have no need for time either.

Yet, there is that awful noise, often associated with time.

[**Who am I?**]

The being does not know who it is, or what it is, exactly. It has been in here for far too long, riding the currents to nowhere and everywhere, all in a continuous, never ending loop.

_Tick tock._

No destination, no wish, no dreams. But sometimes,** it** likes to think that **it** has a reason for existing and sometimes, **it** wonders what it is like to fly.

**It** holds no memories, only an unbalanced amount of thoughts that trickle in now and them, like hot sugar dripping from a spilled container. Too much, then too little and very messy, all at once.

_Tick tock._

But **it** remembers facts of when **it** used to be alive; like how there are organisms that rule the skies, in a more beautiful and brighter place, filled to the brim with wonders, more than this dull, hollow room.

They were the kings and queens of all. For they held wisdom and so much beauty, unparalleled to others and completely flawless. How they ruled above and none could take them down, for they were much too busy admiring in awe.

What beautiful, beautiful wings they had. The way those creatures soared in the sky, gliding at the rivers, as water ruffled their feathers and wind whistling past them, going higher and higher —

(But what are all those things, really?)

_Tick tock._

Could** it** fly like them, too? Or were "birds" just another baseless creation that **it** fancied, because they made **it** seem more than just an "it"?

**It** doesn't like it. Birds are real, aren't they? But maybe they're not. Or are they?

Yes? No. Yes. No? No. Yes.

Maybe? I guess so.

[**Who are you?**]

Now there is a voice speaking, just a whisper yet filled with so much raw power — but what is "power"?

Is it how the voice demands something, yet **it** does not feel offended, but compliant and eager to please?

Or maybe** it** just doesn't have any feelings at all?

_Tick tock._

Questions, questions, questions.

"Who", indeed.

[**Do I want to live?**]

**It** hears the voice ask, with the same tone from before. The spoken words seem familiar, yet not, but language barriers do not have a hold in this lifeless place, for languages belong to the living and speaking.

After all, the living do not cross the dead and **it** has been dead for quite some time now.

Again, there is the mention of "time"? What does it matter anyways, when there is no way to measure it?

_Tick_ tock.

"Time". What an annoying concept.

What a sweet temptation; to leave this wretched prison and just fly free.

[**Of course I do.**]

To live is to have a reason. To live is to become more than just "it".

How does it feel to walk, or better yet, to _fly?_

How does it feel to be free, to grace the lands, feel the minty air caress skin, to feel the warmth, to hear laughter and to just hold someone close. Those are all —

(But will **it** be alone or will **it** be with someone? Who will be that someone? Or does it not matter, because being free is better than being trapped in limbo forever and ever and ever.)

_Tick tock._

So much want

_Tempt tempt tempt_

_Yes yes **yes** pretty **please** yes I beg of you yes yes yes_

_To live is to **see,** to **feel,** to **remember** and there is_

**So.**

**Much.**

**More.**

_Tick tock._

_Give me_

**_Me_**

_I want_

[**My name is —**]

... Now, what is its name again?

_Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock..._

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>The voice promised <strong>it<strong>, yet **it** still stays in someplace similar to the room, unable to leave and trapped once more. It was less empty and cold, without the constant _ticks_ and _tocks_, plus there was a source of warmth lingering in the corner, which was infinitely better than before.

But.

There is a but, because there is a distinct cry in the air, sounding absolutely horrid and terrible, possibly meant to hurt anyone's senses and destroy sanity. Voices mix — not _the voice_ though —, creating strange smacking and also equally annoying sounds to calm the source of the wild cry, but they are clearly not trying hard enough even if the loud wailing reduces to sniffling. Thankfully, they shut up soon enough and only the click of metal and a soft thud of wood are left to echo.

Lies, lies, lies. What a bunch of filthy lies.

If this is what the voice promised **it**, **it** will be sure to strangle _the voice_ if there is a return. Hopefully with something painful, like a wire or a thick metal cord to choke and torture the voice.

Well, if **it** had limbs to hold the instrument. Or a mouth to mock. Or a pair of eyes to greedily take in the pain filled expression of _the voice_, if _the voice_ had a face in the first place.

But at the very least, **it** was starting to remember things, even the simplest of facts, and they never ever went away like gradually evaporating water. **It** now knew things like what was the sky, features of humans, animals, water and air. **It** will be more pleased if **it** could remember the more colors than the basics and flowers.

Flowers were important. Very, very so.

(_There was a memory, in the deep recesses of its storage of facts, of a kind woman with the bluest of eyes twinkling as the bright morning light reflected those pools and hair a nice mix of yellow and brown shades, who gave _**it**_ a soft smile as she held a colorful arrangement of flowers close to her, telling _**it**_ something but _**it**_ couldn't hear it as the rest was blanked and blurred with a high pitched shrill of beeping noise oh **how frustrating it was to not know damn it all**—_)

Maybe even get pass being just "It". **It** may not have a name, but sooner or later, **it** will get its name back or name itself with something suitable. If **it** remembered, maybe **it** will finally hear the woman speak its name and **it** thought,_ how wonderful must it be to hear those syllables roll off her tongue and see her smile again_.

But for now, **it** was satisfied.

This will do.

After all, time did not matter to the dead and **it** had all the time in the world, didn't **it**?

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>Sometimes, its senses would be blocked, the only connection to the great outside, cut off and snapped, without any cause whatsoever. It is absolutely vexing when it happens and the worse part of it all was that <strong>it<strong> could do nothing at all.

Essentially, **it** was disabled. How pitiful and pathetic.

(Weak weak weak _weak—_)

What the voice promised seemed so far away, like a distant cloud drifting away from the rest of its kind. Fading away, to never return and disappear.

Funny enough, that was how** it** felt at times. There were moments where **it** felt cold, warmth, sinking or even floating away.

When it was cold, **it** was reminded of_ the place_. It was dreadful and there was no way to shake off the feeling itself, because the freeze were like needles pricking **it** and there is a large mist that would wrap around **it**, like a cocoon or a blanket, telling **it** that it was safe. It wasn't at all, because the coldness was just a deception. Like a hunter, it waits patiently to strike the target. **It** hated that.

Warmth was nice enough. Certainly better than the coldness, but no better when it came to intentions. It always tries to make **it** want more of the lingering feeling, to make **it** complete dependent on the warmth. Nicer, yes, but still a lie.

The sinking feeling was the nicest. It was like going into a deep sleep, slowly descending into the deepest depth of sea and dreams, to never remember what is right or what is wrong. To never wish for anything or want more because the sinking feeling was synonymous with contention.

However, the floating feeling was something **it** was unsure about. **It** didn't know how to describe it, but it was like sleeping on a boat at sea, with your instincts screaming at you to prepare to reach the shore because there is a storm coming but _no_, it's _too comfortable to wake up_. A sense of false security, yet it may not even hurt** it** at all.

But what was hurt really, when it doesn't even have a body to feel?

It doesn't matter anyways, because it isn't what's bothering **it**.

The wait was getting too long, like in _the room_.

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p><em>Hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry <strong>please<strong> hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry **shut up** hurry hurry hurry fucking hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry hurry **I can't **_

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>When <strong>it<strong> wasn't feeling the normal four,** it** would feel what the cry is feeling.

Scared, angry, hesitant, stressed, hate. They were emotions that could not be comprehended, merely because there was nothing to direct and had no one to receive.

**It** did not have any companions since the beginning. This was partly the reason why **it** desperately wanted to claw its way out of this god forsaken place.

**It** only felt those emotions, or the lingering bits of it, when the wish was particularly strong and constant.

Then the cry will, _well_,_ cry_ and start to shout. Telling **it** to _shut up_ and telling **it** to _stop_ because **it** was _scaring the cry_ and the voices will try to calm the cry again. The cry does not calm, raising her pitch and it hurts.

Hurts, hurts, hurts.

[**Why don't you stop, you stupid child? Crying will not make you feel better.**]

The cry cries loud.

Annoyed, **it** goes into something like a sleep, as **it** drifts away and hears sounds similar to the waves of an ocean, which was an improvement from the cry and her legion of voices.

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>Drifting and drifting,<p>

How is it like to really sleep?

Filled with nice dreams, instead of being forever awake yet continue to close away the rest of whatever is outside, with blissful ignorance?

What a long nightmare it was.

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Soon enough, you'll wake up.<strong>_

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>There was never a mixture of feelings, all at once before.<p>

First, it was cold, then floating away with a strange uneasiness and he sank below down the world was so suffocating and painful so deep it was warmth and there was a long long long pull and a drop so high from above to below, like the heavens to the ground _is this how flying is_ —

_**Splat!**_

... The world was deathly silent for a moment, until the voices rose **higher** and **higher** so _**irritating**_ please _shut up quiet down you insolent barbarians_ —

_Ah_ what a _loud beep_ —

_Beep beep beep beep beeeeeeep —_

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>A twitch of fingers.<p>

Hands and fingers. Smooth skin and short nails, neatly trimmed.

"Do you think she's —"

Toes. It had two feet and a perfect set of toes.

Curl in. Stretch out.

Perfect. Marvelous. Spectacular.

Eyes fluttered open slowly. Then drooped from the onslaught of brightness.

Where was—?

Breathe in, breathe out. Inhale, exhale.

A pair of lips, slightly chapped and dry but otherwise fixable. A tongue and a row of teeth, with one missing at the top row.

Soon enough, there was loud noises again. A hiss, a shout, a crash, a shatter and a disgusting sob.

"Doctor, she woke up—"

"Oh thank god my baby sis is alright—"

"Dear, she's okay! Oh how lucky—"

A cacophony. Like a messed up orchestra, yet in some ways, it blended so well.

Those eyes blinked clearly. **It** readjusted to the light, taking in all the fuzzy and blurred images hovering all over.

Looking above, realization dawned upon **it**.

Oh how **it** hated the color of the ceilings.

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

He woke up.

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><p><strong>Author's Note(s)<strong>:

... Psh, what do you mean I'm not writing this genre right? *sweats nervously* This is my first time writing this sort of thing, but I've always been interested in trying after reading others' successful attempts.

I wanted to do a different take, though, which is not the usual "dead and reincarnation explanation", the "oh hey I'm dead and now I'm a baby, let's proceed to talk how being a baby is like (boring, embarrassing or both)" and the "cool, I have (insert race) parents and they're totally awesome and sweet" route.

I doubt if you die, you remember everything, so that's what I'm going with. The rest? You'll just have to stay and read.

Thanks for taking the time to read and I'll gladly appreciate it if you review as well!


	2. Lost and Found

**Summary**: Out of a one in a million chance, a glitch would happen in the game of life and death.

**Warning(s)**: OC, reincarnation, gender bender, OC has no prior knowledge of the KHR world.

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><p><strong>2. Lost and Found<strong>

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><p>He blinked a few times.<p>

He wasn't kidding when his first coherent thought was how he absolutely abhorred the color of the ceiling.

Why? It was because it was terribly repulsive to his eyes.

The paint, a supposed pure white, was degraded to a slimy and dull gray with discolored and uneven yellow blotches stuck in various areas. The yellow was, frankly speaking, comparable to pus from a infected wound or a longtime stain in a dirty bathroom —now wasn't that disgusting —, as it was hardly pleasing to the eyes like normal yellow should be.

Who the hell was taking care of whatever room he was in? How long has someone ever had a thought that crossed their minds, something along the lines of, "look at how horrible this room is and look at that ceiling! It's high time for a repainting"?

This? Completely laughable.

Though wasn't that just simply baffling? Here he is, facing a mental crisis and complaining about the unkempt paint job, courtesy of a ceiling of all things, but yet...

He was supposed to be dead, wasn't he?

_(Burning and choking, shrill laughter of a madman, invaded home, gun shots and screams —)_

_(Please don't kill them they're innocent not me never me —)_

_(Take me and leave them —)_

Hell, why was he even worried about the ceiling anyways?

Maybe being delusional was getting to him. But he clearly remembered being dead, from before and then the aftermath; reduced to a flicker of an insignificant existence in another space not of the living world, trapped to wander with no sense of self...

_(In that duration of god knows how long, he also had been referring to himself as an it and forgot his own name. What fun and joy.)_

_(He'd get to that later, when he's alone in thought and there's no one hovering over him like a looming skyscraper.)_

"Oh sweetie, are you alrighty? You're having a very bi~g frownie on your facie." cooed a young woman, wearing a neat female business suit, in probably the worst baby-talk voice he has ever had the pleasure of hearing. The cooing was nauseating and sounded... somewhat strange, actually. It didn't sound English, or any other western language he was familiar with, like French and Italian.

Besides that, who was this woman? She was clearly not a friend, or even an acquaintance that he knew of, as he kept track of who he had contact with and this woman's features came to a blank in his mind, which surely, he would've remembered someone with hair as striking as orange?

He also didn't have any associates who spoke in other than English and the occasional French and this woman was speaking nothing similar to said languages.

It sounded like... something Chinese?

_Japanese_, his brain supplied helpfully, to his ever growing annoyance.

However, it seemed and felt right, that this woman was speaking Japanese to him. But, why did he recognize the language, when he had never heard of their speakers or was unfamiliar with any eastern languages? It just didn't make any sense.

Though there was one thing he could say for sure and as weird as it sounded, he felt... most natural with hearing and probably speaking Japanese, the latter which he hoped was true, with fingers crossed. He still understood English and French and a little of Italian (a language he never had the time to learn but was interested) but Japanese seemed like it was supposed to be his mother tongue.

Yet, it made everything all the more confusing and suspicious.

Was it one of those weird, outlandish cases where a comatose person wakes up and instead of speaking in their actual tongue, they speak another —either briefly learned or known at some point — instead? It was something about the "wires" in the brain that controlled speech, "disconnected" upon some sort of head injury and "reconnected" themselves later to another language. Was that how it was with him?

But if so, one, was he even a comatose patient?

Two; how would this woman know what language to speak with him before he woke up?

Finally, three, he never learned Japanese and it wasn't exactly necessary in his studies, so it was highly impossible for the brain to just flip a switch in speech, to another language he had no knowledge about to boot. To be honest, he wouldn't be shocked if he spoke in Italian right now, but Japanese? The situation was getting much more ridiculous by the second.

"Sweetie?" A concerned tone rang in his ears and made him direct his focus onto the woman. Maybe it could be solved later. "Are you cold? Need an extra blankie or want a nice mug of hot choco?"

Screw being dead; if he was really dead, no one would be asking whether he was cold, needed a "blanket" and wanted hot chocolate. Well, he was kinda cold, but that wasn't the point right now.

He sat up on the bed slowly with the help of the woman and idly wondered why his hair was so short that it barely tickled his ears and did not reach the nape of his neck, why he was in a hospital gown and why he felt so... short. Whatever, it was solve later, ask now.

It was more logical to know the woman's identity and where he was first.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but who are you?" he asked as politely as possible. It just wasn't in him to randomly offend others and it wasn't like he had a secret sadistic streak either.

Slightly mean and sarcastic? Yes. Sadistic? Absolutely not.

"And where am I?"

The likeliest place he was in was a hospital because of his outfit but where the hospital was located was the question.

Though he was surprised he spoke in Japanese, it seemed like his assumption was correct, that he could speak as well as understand the language. It wasn't strange or foreign. Just natural, like a fresh breeze from the sea.

Good to know that there would be no language barriers in the way, if this woman was somehow relevant to him.

Although, there was another thing bothering him. Why was his voice voice so... **squeaky** and **young?**

Sadly, his happiness is short lived and another mystery is ignored when the woman burst into a fountain of tears.

A young teenager, with wind blown hair that was of the same shade as the woman's, wearing what looked like a school uniform, broke into his personal bubble and stared at him. With such close proximity, it didn't take a genius to see that the boy had freshwater blue eyes that held some sort of wrapped up intensity in them he couldn't name and was making him grow increasingly uncomfortable.

There was also a thought that hit him like a fast train wreck, that there were others in the room he was in.

Two men, both unfamiliar as well but one he could tell, was a doctor.

He couldn't ponder any further when the same teenager inquired in an almost whisper, desperate and tired and it made him wonder what caused it:

"... You don't remember anything? Us?"

This made him take some time to think before he said anything, but in any case, it was mostly true. He didn't remember anything much and all the strange things he noticed...

If he pretended to "not remember", so to speak, he would gain a free pass and learn more of what he was missing in his knowledge.

In any case, he was supposed to be dead and forever in limbo. This was not being dead, five feet under and stuck in an infinite loop at all.

_(Hah, if the authorities could even recover his body in time to bury before it was possibly burnt to ashes in his home, in the first place.)_

Well, it was now or nothing.

"I don't even know who I am."

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>"I'm afraid your daughter has lost all recollection." The doctor, Nakamura-sensei, delivered his statement in a clear and concise tone.<p>

He was an aging man, with slick back dark brown with a few white strands here and there, past his thirties and heading into his early forties. Despite the increasing numbers, he was still as healthy as a horse able to gallop across the countryside more than needed.

He was one of the best doctors in the city, working for fifteen years, dedicated as ever no matter the years, because it was his job to help others and save lives. His job was a noble one and well-respected among the community, but it wasn't like he loved everything that his job entails.

One of them was delivering bad news, which was the current situation as they were in his office to discuss about the problem. While it was hard to tell a family that their youngest member has lost all of her memories and was very likely to continue on with her life without gaining them anything back at all, it was the downside of his job and as a dedicated life saver, he must do what he must. There's no point in dilly-dallying anyways.

Besides, it wasn't as nerve wracking as providing support in a heart surgery, so he could deal with it. Really.

Even if seeing their grief stricken expressions were heart wrenching, he sucked it up. After all, he had fifteen years of experience.

"There's no possible chance of her remembering anything either." He continued faithfully with his report. "The brain is still a big mystery in the medical world that not even the best doctors understand, so your daughter losing her memories was unexpected when she experienced those injuries. Though you should count it lucky, that she didn't lose more and her brain did not suffer any long-term damage. Those injuries weren't anything to scoff at."

"But the one thing you must know is that trying to help her regain anything may do more harm than good." This was the most important part to say, the doctor knew that. He just hoped that they listened as carefully as possible. "It could cause relapses or in worse case scenario, a seizure. While it is your choice, as you two are her parents, thus responsible for her well-being and you as her older brother, responsible for taking care of your younger sibling, I do advise to treat her as who she was before the accident."

He stopped there, keeping his gaze on them, waiting for their responses. It would be in everyone's best interests if they took the news in stride and helped the lost child readjust to their life, instead of "mourning" over the loss of who they knew, because the child was alive and kicking.

Actually, it wasn't even lucky that she survived.

It was a goddamn one of a kind and once in a lifetime _miracle_ that a five year old girl didn't die straightaway from falling off such a height, because children had such breakable bones and weak statures that were still growing and developing. It would already be considered a miracle that if said child survived but is comatose, which was saying something in itself, but this?

It was more like escaping death.

But enough of the morbid thoughts — he had many as a doctor who had to stay both positive and be prepared for the worst —, because he was still patiently waiting.

The married couple and their son were quiet, unable to say anything to break the silence, until the only woman in the room spoke.

"It's painful that our daughter doesn't remember us, but..." the mother of the family, Harumi, trailed off, looking visibly stressed and sad at the outcome of the accident but Nakamura knew she had a hidden resolve in her to fix things. This woman was strong and she would not fall. "We'll cope. _Somehow._ Maybe even move to a safer area, somewhere with a more comfortable environment. Shigure?"

"Yes, we'll make plans, dear." The father, Shigure, broke out of his solemn expression to wear a determined one.

The old doctor could see that this man loved his daughter to bits, would even do anything for her, since he knew that the father took an indefinite leave from his job and duty in protecting citizens for the sake of the girl. Let it be said though that the smallest of things could put a damper in the closest of bonds, which Nakamura knew firsthand, up close and intimately. Doctors weren't exactly the prime example of humans that had healthy social relationships.

"Do you have anything to say, Ryuma?"

"... No." The teenager sighed and he look absolutely miserable at the mention of not being remembered. But he looked very relieved that his sister wasn't going to suffer anything anytime soon.

It wasn't a particularly optimistic answer, but it would do. Things like readjusting and adapting take time.

"We'll take our leave to see her now, Nakamura-sensei. Thank you." Harumi said her farewell before reaching towards the exit of the heavy atmosphere, with her husband and son following closely behind.

["Do not make her feel like a stranger, but do not treat her as if she understands everything."]

Those words were stuck in his throat, but he swallowed them down as he watched the family leave his office, a little less downtrodden and heads held high.

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

How you treated others didn't depend on how much you love them.

Treating a person who doesn't even what they lost as a stranger would not help them at all. It would make them feel disconnected with who they interacted with and could cause them to stop all communication with others. But treating them as if they were the same as before, someone who you shared secrets and jokes with, would not do any better. They would feel frustrated that they don't remember or maybe even direct their anger towards their friends and family by lashing out violently.

Friends and family of the victim had to understand their condition, but do not treat them like glass or a crippled. They couldn't act as if they walked on thin ice either, because it would be noticed immediately or eventually. To help their love one, who has forgotten everything, they must have patience and be helpful in any way they can.

But this was something they had to learn on their own and sometimes, words from a professional weren't enough.

Hopefully, if they were patient enough to wait for her recovery, they would be patient enough to carry this fact with them for the rest of their lives.

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>When they left his room, as crestfallen as someone seeing their puppy died via a truck running over them, he got off his bed to go to the bathroom. His bones creaked at their unused state and his bandages irritated him, but it wasn't what was exactly bothering him when he slid off the bed.<p>

It was the fact that he was a midget.

To be blunt and truthful, he wasn't even close to being a midget — his size was that of a garden gnome!

A puny little thing so incredibly and inhumanely short with tiny hands and feet that even a breath might make him keel over and float away like a blown dandelion.

This... was **not** **right** at all.

As horror filled him, he quickly ran towards the door of the bathroom in his room, ignoring the way he tripped a few times over nothing because he was used to taking wider steps thanks to having long legs and also the stings and painful stretches in his unhealthy paper white skin under the wraps.

While he thanked the stars for a full body mirror glued to the wall, he did not like what he was seeing at all.

He looked like a three year old child, which, in his opinion, was still very much like a garden gnome. He had the same damn orange hair as the woman and the boy, cropped short but they were more of uneven feathery tufts than an actual, legitimate haircut. He also had the same pair of freshwater blue eyes he saw earlier but less jaded and more, dare he say it, calm.

He was sure that the person in the mirror was him, when it had the exact replication of his physical perplexity and moved as he moved with each breathe taken.

These... new features of his were so different compared to the strawberry blond hair, grey eyes with dark rings circling under, glasses and the tall, lean stature he was used to seeing in his own reflection.

Well, at least it explained the baby talk and his voice.

He didn't even start on the clothes. They were as ugly as expected.

Other than that, there was so much bewilderment in his system, he couldn't even begin to explain it. The only thing that may actually be applied to the situation, however...

It was a very outlandish theory, but this was the only one he had that was the most sensible in his dilemma, even if it sounded like it came out from a bad sci-fi novel.

Reincarnation.

... He didn't think it was possible.

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>When he reentered the room and fit himself snugly back in the bed, they came back, sans the doctor.<p>

"Sweetie, I know you don't remember, but I'm your mother, Wakahisa Harumi." she introduced herself with a smile, her brown eyes warm and while he appreciated the gesture, it wasn't as beautiful (he was a bias bastard) as the flower woman in his dreams, who, if he recalled right, was his mother from his previous life.

So this woman was his mother now?

"This is your father, Wakahisa Shigure and your brother, Wakahisa Ryuma."

The man from before, which, on closer inspection, looked serious and stern, with an icy demeanor, so alike with the father he was never fond of. Features included normal brown hair but bore the same eyes he quite liked. So that's who he inherited the color from.

The boy — then again, he was now a child, so frankly speaking, he couldn't call his supposed brother a "boy" — also had the same looks from his now-father, but his gaze softened when he peered at his now-brother curiously.

In another lifetime, he was the oldest child and he was mature, due to growing up faster when responsibilities piled up like gushing water from an unclosed tap. He took care of his younger siblings, two sisters and one brother and he was an independent, working man who supported what was left of his broken family by the time the youngest of them was at the tender age of ten. It was him against the world and if he didn't learn to stand up for himself, whether it be with guidance or alone, he would fall and spiral downwards into hell. That was, so far, what his life was.

Him as the youngest here with an older brother to hold his hand and guide him? It was utterly strange.

But it sounded nice, for someone to take care of him unconditionally and coddle him. He hoped that the sibling relationships he was used to weren't so different here. Petty sibling arguments were some things that he would never be able to comprehend because he had very close ties with his siblings, as strong as steel and as unbreakable as _Adamantium_.

He fidgeted in his seat, the awkwardness and hesitancy on his face showing obviously. He wasn't trying particularly hard to hide it anyways. If Cass were here now, she would laugh at him for being nervous, so unlike the "cool brother" she said he portrayed himself as. Too bad he was on the other side of the world, huh?

But them. They were his family now and he accepted that fact. Not in a resigned way but genuinely and wholeheartedly glad, because while it just wasn't the same being a child again and also Japanese — he had to relearn culture and customs which he would never get used to, with a western upbringing and all —, it meant that he was alive.

Being alive was more than he wanted and he was satisfied with it.

"Uh, hi."

"Sweetie, do you know your own name?" inquired Harumi, who still held to her smile.

He supposed it would be easier to just go with the flow instead of confusing himself. After all, he was good at adapting in different environments if needed.

So, no, technically speaking, he did not know his own name and at the same time, did know. Just another name of another lifetime, but not this one. Plus, he already said he didn't know who he was.

He shook his head.

"No. I don't."

She was still smiling.

"Your name is Wakahisa Tsuruno."

_Wakahisa Tsuruno, or Tsuruno Wakahisa_, his mind supplied again, though he didn't get why the surname came first. Rather unusual difference to the its western counterpart, but not unwelcome. He would have to accommodate himself with these little things anyways.

He really liked the sound of his new name. It fit like a glove and had a nice ring to it, even if he didn't know what it meant.

All he needs now is time to get used to things because...

Time was a very important concept in living.

_(Even if it made his soul ache and his being pained at being unable to regain his former self and life.)_

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>He also wondered, after hearing his new name, if Tsuruno was a common boy's name in Japanese culture.<p>

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>:

Well, I don't have much to say in this update, except that I like this chapter and I hope that I'll get more written feedback. ^^ Also, next chapter is more family interactions, world build up/development, character background development and Tsuruno learning that he is a she.

Thanks to those who put this in their follow/favorite list! I'm glad that this past time project of mine interests you. :)


	3. What do you mean I wear pink?

**Summary**: Out of a one in a million chance, a glitch would happen in the game of life and death.

**Warning(s)**: OC, reincarnation, gender bender, OC has no prior knowledge of the KHR world.

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><p><strong>3. What do you mean I wear pink?<strong>

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><p>It was strange to finally fall asleep, into a world of dreams.<p>

Being dead and aware of the world was very strange as well and it could be compared to sleeping, yet it couldn't be. This was because it was often unnerving, painful, confusing and weird and sleeping was anything but them. The dead did not have a concept of time, memories or unique identities, because the dead had no need for such specifics to be able to differentiate. Whether you were a racist white man, a black pizza deliveryman, an Austrian drug dealer or a Russian whore when you were alive didn't matter because differences were such trivial things. No matter the race, religion, occupation or deeds done, you would still die if you drowned, have a bullet put through your head, hanged or your throat sliced.

The dead were dead and that was it.

But not him anymore. He was alive again. Whole and breathing, despite the different body, surroundings, background and family, but that was okay. He was alive again and that was okay. _Everything was okay_.

He didn't even care to question how he came to be. That was alright in itself because he had always been a selfish bastard and an ignorant coward. The truth was,**_ he didn't want to know_**. Why waste time to look at the gift horse in the mouth when you could just sit back and appreciate the wonderful opportunity? He wasn't about to ruin it for himself.

All he needed was to take control of this life given to him, avoid any underground organizations because no one knew him anymore and when the time was right, approach his siblings again, even if he couldn't be their big brother anymore. He was okay with them being safe and not knowing that he was still in the land of the living. Well, as long as they could be found again, because god knows how much time passed since the burning house. This new Japanese family was fine, as they had been civil with each other so far, but they were of less priority despite the close biological relations. They weren't really _his_ family anyways.

He was a selfish bastard when it came to himself and them and that was okay, too.

He was their big brother first and foremost and he would be damned if he had to choose between them and the others all over again.

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p><em>"Mum, look, a rose!" a little boy exclaimed cheerfully as he presented a deep red rose, held in his hands that were littered with tiny cuts here and there. He was a boy and boys didn't cry from something so stupid like cuts. Boys were men and they definitely weren't like dumb girls, who pretended that they were princesses – when really, they were nothing special –, giggled like loonies and played tea party all day with creepy plastic dolls. <span>Ew<span>. "For you!"_

_His mother and little sister, Cass, were exceptions, because tea time was a family thing and Cass hated tea parties anyways. Though, he did admit that she was a bit of a princess, because she was terrified of cats and their, he quote, "mangy, flea-bitten fur". Which was strange, because he loved cats, even though they were grumpy most of the time._

_So, he was a little bias when it came to his family. It's not like it hurt anyone anyways._

_"You just like ironies, don't you, my child?" his mother took it in stride and picked the rose delicately from his hands. "But you should know better to take roses with your bare hands. Isn't it painful?"_

_"No... not really..." he murmured under his breath. Sure, it did sorta hurt and it was doing this kinda burning thing at the moment, but he wasn't supposed to tell her that. Father would hate it if he complained and whined like a pansy. Though facing his mother's frown was much more worse than father's stern glare. He was more partial to his mother anyways, though no one needed to know that. "Yes, it does hurt a little..." His face scrunched up at having to admit that. _

_Ugh, now he felt so pathetic. _

_"Silly boy. You're supposed to tell me when you're hurting. That's what I'm here for." she laughed softly, placing the rose on the table and standing up. She then offered her hand to him, which he gladly took. Her hands were always warm and nice. "Let's get out of the garden and get some band-aids for your princess hands." _

_Now, he just felt horrified at his mother's words. _

_"Mum!" he cried in a scandalized manner. "My hands are not princess hands!" _

_This just made her laugh even more._

_"Whatever you say, –"_

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><p>. . .<p>

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><p>"–runo? Tsuruno?" said a familiar woman as she shook him awake, causing him to flutter his eyes open, then quickly shut them from the brightness of the room. He shouldn't have done that.<p>

"... Yes?" he responded by mumbling out a foreign syllable while squeezing his eyes in hopes to stop the stinging. Thankfully, it was receding, despite the slowness. Was he ever this sensitive to light? "Is there something you need?" He said them as if it was natural for him to speak in Japanese.

He still wasn't used it to it. How long has it been, a few hours?

"O-oh, no, just..." she stuttered and he actually wanted to tell her to hurry it up and speak clearly, but he stopped himself from doing that. That would make him seem rather bratty and snobby, so he waited as patiently as possible. "Nakamura-sensei it's okay for you to go home, since it's better for you to rest there and you've been okay this morning, so..."

"So I'm good to go?" he asked, slowly opening his eyes. He didn't exactly know how hospitals worked, because he never needed to go to one due to having a family doctor, but wasn't it too soon for him to be released? Oh well, he wasn't going to make a fuss about it and at least the light wasn't trying to kill his eyes now. Things were starting to look up. "I don't like this place. The ceiling is ugly."

The woman, his mother – well, he didn't know what to call her, really, but the loveless, bland _mother_ fit fine, for now – took it in stride and didn't make a comment on his choice of blunt words. She smiled and it made him slightly frown. Why was this woman so accepting of the strangeness that was him? He was her son now, only in body but not in soul. But she didn't know that, did she?

"Alright, let's get you changed." She handed him a tote bag that was lumpy with what he presumed as his clothes. "I'll leave for awhile to sign the forms, so take the time to change. I brought you your favorite clothes." She was still smiling as she got up from her chair beside his bed and left.

How peculiar.

* * *

><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>He went into the bathroom with the tote bag he was given and changed out of his hospital gown. It was a terribly hideous thing, since it was full of colorful cartoon clowns and there was just no possible way to fully describe his hatred for clowns.<p>

They were just... not his cup of tea.

Once he was done unbuttoning the back, it slid off his shoulders and he couldn't help the shudder that came afterwards because of how cold it was.

This was why he hated hospitals too. Patients were required to wear the standard attire without anything beneath it. That meant he wasn't wearing any underwear and he was pretty much as naked as the day he was born. It was weird being naked in a public place.

"_So cold._" he grumbled in English and couldn't believe how mangled it sounded. Looks like he needed to improve on his pronunciation too. He didn't want to be misunderstood by or offended any English-speaker just because he couldn't enunciate his words properly. It just wasn't right for a British guy to be unable to say things properly.

He opened the tote bag and rummaged through it, glowering all way through. He didn't understand what the woman meant by "favorite clothes" because he was not finding the joke funny and was not amused at all. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"_Disgusting piece of crap. Bloody hell._"

Other than clowns and hospitals, he disliked the color pink on clothes. It just never suited his tastes. But desperate times call for desperate measures – he was naked and cold. Having clothes, despite _how pink_ they were, was better than nothing. He just wasn't up for losing his dignity and freezing to death in the toilet. He just came back from the dead, so he wasn't rushing back to the end of it all again just because he didn't want to wear anything pink. That would be too irrational of him and he really couldn't afford to be picky at the moment.

So he took out everything from the bag and placed them on the chair that was found inside the toilet. He took the underwear, which, thankfully, was dull beige, unfolded it and was about to wear it until...

Wait.

Where –?

He didn't have a –

"_Oh fucking hell what the bloody fuck what –_" he started to swear in English because he was so baffled and bewildered, because _what the fuck_, he didn't have a penis. He had a woman's –

"_M__on dieu, __ce qui la baise._"

He settled for laughing hysterically.

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><p>. . .<p>

* * *

><p>Whenever he was really stressed out, he often spoke in French. Maybe it was because he excessively cussed in that state as well, that Cass often had to reprimand his use of language, especially when his younger siblings were around. While Cass never minded that he had very dirty words or used them more than he should when he had to take over the family business his father wanted to leave it to him as he was the first son and thus heir, he was also ashamed that he was becoming a bad role model and brother to his younger siblings, Eva and Des. He loved them very much and he rather not hear them say "stupid" or even "moron" at their young age.<p>

So he was a very doting big brother under all that tough and slightly pretentious exterior; big deal. Family was his first and foremost priority and he would never put them any less in the list nor would he choose anything over them. That one time that he did so was just a once-and-never-fucking-ever-again thing that he would personally make sure **would never happen again** because it caused him to die.

End of the story because really, he was _so not doing that again_.

But he was getting a little off topic here. The language French, as he was required to learn it, came as a blessing and as an escape. If things became too much and he couldn't do anything to stop it even if he was frustrated, he would just sit back with a cup of hot chocolate (anything alcoholic was bad for the liver) and rant and cuss to his heart's contents in French. It was even better if Eva or Des did something very foolish and he wanted to say some really mean things to them, because he didn't only inherit the business from his father but also his anger issues, he would bite his tongue before speaking, then cuss in French and once he was calm and they were quiet due to being perplexed from his "gibberish", he would lecture them and that was that.

The current situation, however, was not the same with Eva and Des or with Cass or with the business. This was far, far worse than the time they broke mum's favorite vase that was _abnormally expensive_, or the time when Cass brought a boy home who was obviously not even worth the dirt on her shoes and the time when his subordinates were as incompetent as garden gnomes.

He didn't have a penis, he had no testosterone and his sex chromosomes were XX instead of XY. He knew how babies worked because his father drilled into his head the importance of creating a male heir when he turned of age, he attended Sex Ed classes in school as they were mandatory and he did have two sisters. He was also a very young child right now, which meant, when the time came, he was going to _bleed down there_ for seven days every month and he would be able to produce a baby. In his... her (this was getting rather bizarre) womb. He... she... had the "equipment" to give birth.

Oh dear gods no. He remembered Cass being three months into her pregnancy and it was more frightening than hell and Satan. Her husband, Grant, did not stand a chance. Des was scarred for life and Eva perfected the art of disappearing.

He was not a man anymore. He couldn't even refer to himself as a "he" or even "himself".

A girl. She was a girl.

A girl. Who would turn into a woman.

With a vagina and breasts and...

This was surreal enough already. But the change of genders was just insane and also incredibly freaky. Then again, no one comes back from the dead either, so he had no right to complain.

But still.

"_Dieu, pourquoi avez-vous un tel sens de l'humour étrange, vous branleur stupide!_" she almost shrieked but managed to hold herself back when she squeaked.

The truth was slowly sinking in and it was hard to tell whether it was reality or not.

Knock, knock.

"Tsuruno, are you alright in there?" asked a concerned voice. It was Harumi, her supposed mother. He– she (damn it!) understood why she sounded like that because anyone would when she was almost screaming in a foreign language and was most likely seen as babbling very angrily by someone who might not know French.

"_Yes_- _I_, uhh, _mean_, _wait_, mean, yes." she almost slapped herself for replying in English. Why was she being so ridiculous now? "Yes, I'm fine."

Which was such a lie because she was hysterical to the point of madness at the moment.

"Are you sure? Do you need any help? Do you want me to come inside? Tsuru-"

"No!" she finally shouted and was huffing until she realized she was not acting normal. She was not acting like a hospitalized girl (god knows how long). She was acting like a loony straight out of the asylum. She needed to compose herself and... adapt. Like a chameleon with its surroundings, yeah. That's just what she needed to do. There was no point having a breakdown in the bathroom.

(Yes, her composure was definitely missing if she was making sixth grade comparisons.)

"I mean, no. I'm fine, _mother_, I mean, okaa-san, really." she tried really hard to sound sincere to reassure Harumi. "I just... I just freaked out because..." she stared down at herself and quickly turned her attention away in embarrassment to her back. She felt like such a pervert, considering the fact that she had been a he for twenty-seven years.

She hoped she'll get used to herself soon or else she'll take forever to bath or change in this life. It was already a pain as it is to even switch gender pronouns. While weird, she hardly wanted to refer to herself as an it and female pronouns were better anyways, simply because it was fact that she was actually a girl and also two Japaneses' daughter and not son.

"I didn't know I had a birthmark on my back." It was the small, brown splotch at her left side, near to her bottom. "Uhm, that's it."

There was no helping it; she was being such an embarrassment in such a short amount of time.

"O-oh. Okay then... if you say so..." she could tell that her mother was torn in between of being suspicious and laughing at the sheer absurdity of her excuse but did not prod any further. She thanked the small mercies she had been blessed with for now. "I'll wait outside, so please come out soon, Tsuruno."

She... Tsuruno unfolded the rest of the clothes to get on with it and to her dismay, they were not a shirt and a pair of pants like she previously thought so but was an atrocity of a dress. A pink, polka-dotted dress with frills at the bottom. Tsuruno took a lot of effort and a sheer amount of will to bite back a cringe.

Was it too early to invest in a sex change for the future?

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><p><strong>Translations<strong>:

_M__on dieu, __ce qui la baise._ = My god, what the fuck.

_Dieu, pourquoi avez-vous un tel sens de l'humour étrange, vous branleur stupide!_ = god, why do you have such a strange sense of humor, you stupid wanker!

*PS: The French used in this chapter is thanks to Google Translate. I apologize if it's wrong, though, so feel free to correct me.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: So... this chapter was supposed to be longer (I planned to write Tsuruno going home, interacting with Ryuma and Shigure, getting to know about Japan), but I decided to separate it and made this chapter only addressing the gender thing.

Also, if you've been with me since ch 1 or ch 2, you must've noticed the added warning/tag which is "OC has no prior knowledge of the KHR world". I was planning to let Tsuruno have secondhand knowledge about it (like only knowing the most basic stuff thanks to his/her younger siblings), but then I was like, "nah, seems to convenient and also very irrelevant/strange, considering his/her completely western background" and "wait, Tsuruno doesn't even know what's a manga or anime, whoops". So yeah, he/she won't have any prior knowledge on Vongola (or any mafia famiglia mentioned in the series) or flames, but that doesn't mean he's/she's completely uninformed. You'll see why/how later on, cuz I won't say anymore here.

Another thing is Tsuruno "herself". Since she had been a dude for 20+ years, she's (I'll completely refer Tsuruno with female pronouns from here on out) not exactly gender-flexible. She understands that she is a female now and must use she/her/herself to refer to herself, but she sees it in a physical sense only. Her mind is still that of a 27 year old male (as mentioned), so she will be iffy about having long hair, cute hairstyles, dresses and pretty much anything that screams feminine. She won't exactly be a "tomboy", but she won't be the most ladylike Yamato Nadeshiko either. Yeah, that pretty much sums it up in general as the rest will be developed along the way.

So, sorry for the super long A/N (I'm aware that no one likes reading the author's too-long ramblings, but bear with me, what I said/typed was just to clear any future confusion or questions) and this is the end of it. Thanks for reading this chapter (and the A/N, if you did)!


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